


close quarters

by myn_x



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Relationship Study, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Touch Aversion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-20 07:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15529284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myn_x/pseuds/myn_x
Summary: It happens when they’re still in high school, during their third year. Without ever meaning to, Kyoutani reveals a hidden piece of himself to Yahaba, the last person with whom he’d ever choose to share anything. What Kyoutani never expects? For Yahaba to take his secrets and guard them like they’re his own, no questions asked.





	close quarters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArcticLights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArcticLights/gifts).



> listen i know the tags are a mess but just hear me out and roll with it
> 
> this fic is extremely personal and semi autobiographical, which is a fancy way of saying i projected onto kyoutani more than i probably should have 
> 
> (:
> 
> big thank you as always to [lena](https://aoneshouyou.tumblr.com) for reading this over

Kyoutani has to admit that he and Yahaba have come far since the first time they met, which was also, now that he thinks about it, the first and only time the black eye Yahaba gave him had been an accident. That “accidental” elbow to the face had sparked Kyoutani's on-again, off-again relationship with volleyball practice, which endured through the rest of his first year and far into his second.  
  
He can't not go to practice now, though, not as Seijou's vice captain—not as _Yahaba's_ vice captain.

Yahaba had accepted Oikawa's mantle with fresh tears in his eyes, but his face had been dry as bone as he passed down his first decree, a harsh command whispered in Kyoutani’s ear:

 _Starting now, you come to_ every _practice and_ every _training camp, or you can say goodbye to your new jersey._

Though it had all the finality of a death sentence, Kyoutani had scoffed at the warning in Yahaba’s voice, which belied the irony of their more than complicated relationship. Yahaba had chased him away during their first practice together while trying to show off, only to become the reason he couldn’t leave.

“I hate you,” Kyoutani had muttered, massaging a new soreness in his neck.

"Grumble all you want, but an ace who can't commit 110% doesn't deserve to be ace, Vice Captain," Yahaba had said, smacking Kyoutani on his back way too hard to be friendly.

The sting of Yahaba’s palm had left Kyoutani shaken in more ways than one.

More thrilling than finally being called "ace" by his new captain was how suddenly he'd also become his second in command, and by unanimous vote.

Kunimi had rolled his eyes while Kindaichi offered his awkward congratulations. Watari had looked smug, a knowing sparkle in his eyes that left Kyoutani bewildered. To those three, it must have been inevitable. The first years had just followed suit.

In the time it had taken Kyoutani to fully understand the magnitude of the shift not only within the team, but also between Yahaba and himself, it was already too late. Kyoutani had no choice but to be good—no more mouthing off to teachers or fighting or skipping school.

Yet Kyoutani still can’t find it in himself to say that he hates having to rise above himself, not if it means the number four is his. And he _won’t_ thank Yahaba for that.

  
  
In the time since they had gone from cold strangers who avoided each other to something warmer—almost burning—that Kyoutani can never define as much as he tries to find a word that fits.

They aren't friends and never had been. After all, don’t friends see each other whenever they can? The only time Kyoutani can stand to be in Yahaba’s presence is during practice, but even that wears his patience thinner than spider silk. There’s also the handful of times they’ve had lunch on the roof together, each near-hour spent with an angry cloud of silence hanging over them both, but those don't really count.

Don’t friends share interests? All they have in common is a vicious passion for volleyball, but it's not something Kyoutani can say they've bonded over. Can he?

Kyoutani had been unrefined when he'd scrawled his signature on the club form; he'd been a reckless wildcard who could never truly be the ace Seijou needed. It helped that he'd idolized Iwaizumi, but it wasn’t long before they lost, and lost again. Last year's loss had come far too early, and then it had been time for Iwaizumi to move on.

Forget the rest of the third years, Oikawa in particular. There had always been something about him that set Kyoutani's teeth on edge. He'd resisted becoming the weapon Oikawa saw in him because that wasn't all he wanted to be.

Sometimes, as Kyoutani’s going for a spike, he thinks that maybe that's why they’d lost. Yahaba always senses it somehow, and when he tosses to him, it’s flawless.

Sure, Kyoutani had respected Iwaizumi, but it had always been Yahaba who'd really gotten through to him, if a little violently. Yahaba had knocked Kyoutani’s head straight, whenever he needed it, yanking him up by the scruff of his neck, setting him before his target, giving him the push he needed to tear down every obstacle before him so that he could claw his way to the top.

And after butting heads so much with Yahaba and his uptight ass, it was no wonder Kyoutani had become polished and lethal. Seijou’s ace and vice captain.

 

 _Starting now, you come to_ every _practice and_ every _training camp, or you can say goodbye to your new jersey._

Kyoutani knows there's too much power behind his spike, but he smashes the ball into the hardwood so hard the first year whose name Kyoutani can never remember stands frozen not millimeters away from where the ball strikes the floor with all the force of an asteroid.

All activity screeches to a silent halt save for the ball as it bounces off the wall and rolls back toward the practice match. No one speaks, or moves to pick it up.

Kyoutani feels Yahaba boring holes into him from where he's watching the match next to Mizoguchi and Irihata.

 _Can't wait to get reamed out about scaring off more of the first years_ , Kyoutani thinks.

With a heavy sigh, he waves a hand over his shoulder in apology and nods at the first year he nearly took out, and practice resumes with Kyoutani exercising some of his newly acquired restraint.

Yahaba’s stupid ultimatum is unfair, and not because Kyoutani has to practice with the rest of the team. While it’s true that Kyoutani can only barely stand showing up after school every day, the thought of participating in even a single training camp puts a weird fluttery feeling in his stomach, especially since Yahaba hasn’t given him any heads-up on when the first one will be.

Kyoutani could always simply ask. But he would rather die, frankly, than ask Yahaba anything and potentially reveal the source of his anxiety, the reason why his timing's off and his spikes have the flavor of his old recklessness.

He works up enough of a sweat during practice that he decides to stay later than everyone else, refusing Watari's offer to help so that he can clean up by himself, even though he's so tired that he could lie down in the middle of the court and sleep until morning. The floor's probably cool enough that he'd be plenty comfortable.

"We're going to win this year."

The voice at Kyoutani's back has his hackles rising instantly, an old instinct he can't shake.

"Come to pick a fight, Captain?" he challenges, dropping the net he'd been about to put away as he turns to face Yahaba, who frowns down at him.

"No, not with you, Kyoutani." Yahaba steps forward to pick up a stray volleyball, tossing it up a few times absently. His hair is still wet, but he's changed out of his practice clothes.

Kyoutani locks on to the ascent and descent of the ball. His hands twitch with the effort of stifling the urge to follow through and smack it to the floor every time it hits the apex of Yahaba's tosses.

Yahaba continues talking, oblivious to the effect he's having on Kyoutani with his tossing, crafted and refined over a single summer to be perfect for the next ace.

"Just came to tell you that we're having the first training camp of the year next week, I thought you should know before the rest. Do I need to remind you that training camps are mandatory?"

"Screw off." Kyoutani pulls his gaze away from the ball, now still in Yahaba's slender hands, his stomach lurching with dread as he reaches for his neck. "How—how long will it be?"

"Three days, including the day we get there. You'll be coming, correct?"

That means it's three days and two nights too many, but Kyoutani growls, "Yes, now get the hell off my back."

"Promise me," Yahaba steps closer, reaching out before remembering himself and letting his hand fall back to his side. "Promise me you'll do everything you can to help us win this year."

The note of desperation in Yahaba's voice, his vulnerable expression, both send a chill dancing down Kyoutani's spine, and for a moment his own anxiety is but a quiet hum in the back of his mind. His hand drops from where he’d been pressing his fingers into his neck.

"I don't make promises," he says, even though he knows it'll ruin the moment. _This isn’t what I want to say!_ "Especially ones I don't know I can keep."

"We need you." Then, even quieter, Yahaba says, "I need you."

His tongue tempered by cruelty, Kyoutani bites the words out before he can stop them. "That’s a little deep for someone as shallow as you. I wonder how much that hurts your ego?"

Yahaba’s face hardens with a familiar fury. "Make sure you show up," he snaps, turning on his heel. He lets the volleyball fall to the ground, and it bounces a few times before rolling toward Kyoutani, coming to a stop against his shoe.

Once the gym door slams shut behind Yahaba, Kyoutani kicks the ball into the far wall so hard it echoes in the empty space like a gunshot.

 

The short, bitter exchange leaves a nasty aftertaste in Kyoutani’s mouth that makes it a lot harder for him to show up to practice, but he does anyway. He’s still learning how to be a good leader, and while he hasn’t promised Yahaba anything yet, he does want to be able to rise to the occasion and succeed where last year’s third years could not.

In the meantime, Kyoutani knows he can't jeopardize his place on the team, which means not letting Yahaba dig any deeper under his skin.

Though Kyoutani doesn’t have to work very hard in that regard, since Yahaba ignores him to the point that he doesn't even yell at Kyoutani for his many, many shortcomings.

It pisses Kyoutani off that it’s the lack of nitpicking that probably throws him off the most. He never really realized how he’d come to use it as an incentive to push himself harder. To what end, he couldn’t say. Surely not Yahaba’s praise.

So Kyoutani ignores him back harder.

It's not anything new for them, so no one, not even Watari—once Kyoutani silences the question in his eyes with a glare—makes note of their cold war.

Each day that brings them closer to the training camp ramps up Kyoutani’s anxiety to previously unknown heights. If Kyoutani's playing is off, no one says anything about that either. Yahaba sticks to watching him when he thinks Kyoutani doesn't notice, and Kyoutani pretends he doesn't care. He’s got more pressing things to worry about.

It’s bad enough that Kyoutani normally doesn’t get any sleep, but now he has to worry about how to hide his...condition from Yahaba and the rest of his teammates for three days, which means he gets even less sleep because his brain is too busy running through every possible scenario, every possible horrible way everyone could find out.

Eyeliner almost isn't enough to make Kyoutani feel less dead the day they leave for the training camp. Some university is hosting them. Kyoutani can't be arsed to remember which one.

Yahaba does a run down of their schedule on the bus ride over, and Kyoutani only half listens. It's a typical training camp focused on honing the basics, and they'll spend the three days doing an assembly line of drills from dawn until dusk. On the last day, they're to play the college team, and Yahaba wants to debut their starting lineup and try out some of their new trick plays.

As tempting as it is to rest on the bus while he can, Kyoutani can't risk falling asleep in such a cramped space. Plus, he won't be able to get two night’s worth of sleep on a two-hour drive anyway.

There's no distraction from the anxiety buzzing in his skull like flies over carrion. He bumps his head against the window in an attempt to quiet his thoughts down, to no avail.

"You good, Kyoutani?" Watari nudges him with his elbow, and Kyoutani barely resists the impulse to shrink away from his touch.

Kyoutani straightens up in his seat to look at the only person he'd really ever been able to consider a friend.

"Great actually, never been better." But his voice is dry even to his own ears, and he grimaces at how unconvincing he sounds.

"I'm nervous too, ya know. In a year's time we'll be in college full time." At the downward pull of Kyoutani’s mouth, Watari continues hurriedly, "But before that, there's nationals!"

"Yeah," Kyoutani agrees. "Nationals."

Watari falls silent at Kyoutani's lack of enthusiasm, and Kyoutani presses his face temple to cheek to the coolness of the window pane, almost but not quite enough to numb his thoughts into background noise.

 

Though Yahaba had said they'd be focusing primarily on the basics, the intensity of the practice matches and the unfamiliar environment end up making the first day akin to a boot camp straight out of hell. Everyone—third years included—is worn out and ready to sleep for the next two days by the time Mizoguchi is finally through with them.

After dinner and a long, cold shower, Kyoutani dresses for bed and heads back to the common room, picking a futon that's a bit secluded from the others and close enough to the door that it eases at least one subset of his nerves. He even goes so far as to pull it farther away, hoping that no one will notice. Though he'd rather be accused of being antisocial than risk anyone _really_ figuring him out.

Nothing will make these nights any easier, but at least if Kyoutani needs to bolt, he won't have to worry about tripping over anyone.

A glare is enough warning for the first years who come too close, and they wisely give Kyoutani a wide berth, clustering on the opposite side of the room. Watari, Kunimi, and Kindaichi group together somewhere in the middle, which only leaves Yahaba unaccounted for.

Kyoutani smirks. _He's probably still in the bathroom preening before bed._

As if on some unheard cue, Yahaba makes his way over to where Kyoutani crouches over his futon. Ignoring Kyoutani's incredulous look, Yahaba claims the space next to him, dropping his phone smack in the middle of the futon not an arm's length away from Kyoutani’s like he's planting his flag.  
  
_Ignore me for a week and then sleep next to me for two nights? Pretentious cream puff._

Kyoutani rises to full height, already scanning the room for another futon—so he can point Yahaba in the right direction—but they've all been taken.

He faces Yahaba again, brow slowly creeping up, half in disdain, half in confusion.

Yahaba's too busy getting comfortable and pretending Kyoutani doesn't exist to notice, but when he finally flicks a careless glance in his direction, he only shrugs and lies down. He puts one arm behind his head and scrolls through his phone with all the nonchalance of someone who has no idea just how much Kyoutani would love to smother him in his sleep.

Though Yahaba is the last person Kyoutani wants to sleep next to for two nights, it's probably best to let it go. When it comes to Yahaba, Kyoutani's come to realize, it's best to pick one's battles.

 _To hell with that,_ he thinks, lips curling into a wolfish grin. He wants to be left alone, but the tiniest part of him craves the friction that comes with dealing with Yahaba.

"Still ignoring me, eh? Captain?"

Yahaba scrunches up his face but doesn't take the bait. How he manages it, Kyoutani doesn't know. Yahaba's thumb keeps moving, pausing periodically when something manages to catch his comically fake interest.

Kyoutani flops down on his own futon, reaching over to wave his hand between Yahaba's face and the screen.

"Oi. I'm talking to you."

Yahaba’s scowl melts as he stares at Kyoutani's fingers, but Kyoutani can tell he's not looking through them to his phone screen. "Oh, is it—" Yahaba starts to say, but he cuts himself off when he meets Kyoutani's eyes.

"Yeah?" Kyoutani prompts, pulling his hand away.

"Uhh, never mind." Yahaba rolls over onto his stomach—his hair does the _swoosh_ thing that Kyoutani hates—propping his chin on the heels of his hands and batting his eyelashes. "I didn't know you wanted to talk to me this badly, Kyoutani."

 _Well, that was easy enough._  
  
"It’s called being civil, Yahaba, which I know you have difficulty with. I hate you,” Kyoutani says casually. “But bickering all the time and ignoring each other when we aren’t isn’t going to make the first years respect us.”  
  
"Look at you, being the voice of reason. For once."

Kyoutani snorts. Everyone thinks of him as a walking landmine—which he’s fine with because it means less people try to approach him—but Yahaba’s temper is more than a match for Kyoutani’s.

"Don't forget _you_ came over _here_ ," Kyoutani says, pointing first at Yahaba and then at the space between their futons. "And I was here first."

Kyoutani expects some smartass reply, but instead Yahaba just stares at him, then says, "You look different without eyeliner on."

The softness of his words catches Kyoutani completely off guard and time lurches to a halt, as if they've gone off the record. He'd forgotten that, seeing as he'd never gone to a training camp or had any other reason to spend the night with anyone from school, this is his first time being around his teammates with his face bare.

His cheeks grow hot now that Yahaba's called attention to it.

They're staring at each other, and Kyoutani can hardly stand the scrutiny. He feels his lips part, but he can't summon a clever insult to fling back at Yahaba and his stupid hair, much less any words at all.

"Not—not in a bad way," Yahaba finally says. Time resumes when he clears his throat, and when he speaks again his voice has regained its steadiness. "Lights are going out soon. Make sure you get some sleep, we've got a long day tomorrow."

He says it loud enough that it's obvious he's speaking to everyone, but Yahaba's eyes never leave Kyoutani's.

 

Exhaustion weighs his body down like so much lead in his veins, but Kyoutani stares up at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. His blanket has long since been kicked away, unneeded.

Yahaba sleeps soundly with his back to Kyoutani, blanket pulled nearly all the way over himself, only the very top of his cream puff head showing. Kindaichi's snoring rises above everyone else's quiet breathing, reminding Kyoutani that normal people sleep at night and dream of harmless things like puppies and forgetting to put underwear on before leaving the house for an important meeting.

Kyoutani’s chest twinges with jealousy, underneath the fear. He's used to the solitude and silence of his own room, where no one can watch him struggle and fail to grab a few moments of peace, so being in a room with so many sleeping people sets him on edge.

Everyone's blissfully unconscious, though, so it's not like anyone's watching Kyoutani now as he wars with his own mind.

His nightly afflictions have become a routine at this point, leaving Kyoutani confused as to how he's able to function during the day at all. He used to skip school just to catnap. That and his kohl-rimmed appearance had spawned the rumors about him being a delinquent, which he’d been only too happy to encourage.

So he pretends that he doesn’t have any dreams in his waking life, to match how he doesn’t at night.

Kyoutani has heard of people who never dream. Sleep takes them under and they experience REM, but when they wake up they can't recall having any dreams. There are two possibilities: they simply wake up with no recollection of dreaming, or they don't dream to begin with.

Neither apply to Kyoutani. He never dreams, but he's not one of the people he's read about. He says he never dreams because as far back as he can remember, he's only ever had nightmares.

Even if Kyoutani gets lucky and manages to wake himself up from a bad one, by the time he's calmed down enough to go back to sleep, another nightmare claims him for its own.

Kyoutani doesn’t have to do the math to know there’s about a fifty-fifty split between waking up only once or twice in one night and waking up every hour. Either way, he always rouses himself to a cold sweat that plasters his shirt to his skin, panting and sore as if he’d run a hundred laps.

Rarely, he sleeps through it all, and it’s after one of those nights that he wakes up feeling the worst.

At the very least he's used to going one, two, three days without any sleep, but he's at training camp now. This is why doing things on Yahaba's terms has been so difficult.

Just then Yahaba shifts onto his stomach and checks his phone, eyes closing again as he nestles into his new position. But then his voice reaches Kyoutani’s ears.

"You're thinking way too hard for someone who's supposed to be asleep," Yahaba whispers. "It's after one."

Yahaba finding him out gives Kyoutani the push he needs to flee. "Then I guess I'll go somewhere else."

He braces himself to get up only to find fingers encircling his wrist, holding him in place.

The touch burns into Kyoutani's skin, not exactly painful, but wrong all the same. It's instinctual to try to yank his arm away, but Yahaba's grip is firm.

"I need you well-rested for tomorrow," Yahaba whines. He's half sitting up now, ready to pin Kyoutani down if he sees fit, Kyoutani is sure. “We’ve got a long two days ahead of—”

"Yahaba."

Physically struggling will make this worse, but Kyoutani needs Yahaba to stop touching him. Even so, he doesn't yell. He's the one whispering now.

"Let. Me. Go."

Yahaba looks at where he's holding Kyoutani down, eyes widening at his own mistake.

“ _Now_ ,” Kyoutani hisses.

"I'm—I'm sorry," Yahaba stammers. "I wasn't thinking."

"You _were_ thinking. But only about yourself."

This time, when Kyoutani jerks his arm away, he slips free of Yahaba's hand with ease. Still, the ghost of his touch lingers as he bolts out of the room, down the hall, and outside into the night.

 

These aren't the right shoes for a run, Kyoutani realizes, too late. In his haste to get out he hadn’t paid attention to what pair he grabbed, but now his body regrets it.  

_How could I ever expect any different from him?_

Kyoutani doesn't know where he's going but then he doesn't really care, so long as it's away. He grits his teeth and pushes himself faster, further, but it’s to no avail.

Up until ten minutes prior Yahaba had been careful about getting physical with Kyoutani, who now wears the afterimage of Yahaba's touch like a shackle.

When he presses on the skin where Yahaba wrapped his fingers around him and tethered him down, Kyoutani remembers.

 

It had happened last year, on one of the days Kyoutani had decided to show up to school.

Yahaba had found and confronted him as he was trying to leave after classes, spewing the same poison about how he shouldn't get to be on the team if he skips practice.

"Hah? What are you, my manager?" Kyoutani had sneered, tilting his chin up to glare down at Yahaba's pout. "Coach said it's fine, so lay off."

"The team isn't here for you to find your lightning rod! Don't you care if we win or lose? The third years are gone now! _It's just us_!"

And with that Yahaba had bumped their chests together and pushed Kyoutani backward, cornering him against a wall. There had still been that negligible difference in their height, but in that moment Yahaba’s presence had been that of a giant.

The bodily contact had rippled through Kyoutani like a shockwave, growing more and more unpleasant, and he'd tried to shrink back but the brick and mortar behind him wouldn't give.

He hadn’t been afraid. But it had felt like every cell in his body had been screaming at him to get away from the wrongness, repulsed by the sensation of being touched. Like he’d wanted to jump out of his own skin if only to get away, away, away. He needed to get away.

It had nearly killed Kyoutani to flatten his palms on Yahaba's chest, shoving him off with his eyes squeezed shut, hating each and every millisecond of contact.

When he’d opened his eyes again, Yahaba had been watching him.

Kyoutani could count the inches he'd managed to put between them.

"Listen, if you're going to do this, fine, but can you _please_ not touch me? Please?"

Yahaba had cocked his head, his hair bouncing with the movement. "Please? Really? I thought you liked fighting, _Kyouken_ , but it seems that you're just a coward."

There had been a chance that Yahaba wouldn't understand. But because Yahaba had a tendency to get physical with Kyoutani whenever he wanted to send a message, Kyoutani had no choice but to tell him.

Slowly, he said, "No, Yahaba, I don't, but it's because I can't stand to be touched."

Yahaba hadn't responded at first, too confused by the admission.

Kyoutani had squeezed the cross-strap of his bag and worried at his lip, then added, "By anyone."

Realization melted the scorn from Yahaba's face. "Oh," he said, dazed. "Oh. I didn’t mean—"

"Save it. There are times when I’d gladly let you kick the shit out of me, but this isn’t one of them."

Then he'd left Yahaba behind, sprinting to put as much distance between them as possible.

 

It had taken Kyoutani a while to realize Yahaba had chosen to let himself be moved that day.

Once Kyoutani had set the record straight, Yahaba had left him alone for the rest of their second year, until right before their third year began.

_Can you meet me at the gym? We have some important things to discuss._

And with that capitalized, properly punctuated text, everything had changed.

Though Kyoutani knew well enough how intense Yahaba could get when he wanted to be, he’d still thought Yahaba was too soft spoken, to shallow for captaincy. Kyoutani had quickly reminded himself that nobody thought he’d amount to anything at all, and look at where he’d ended up. He had not one role to fill now, but two. Iwaizumi had made it seem so easy.

Eventually it also sank in that Kyoutani had picked up his habit of rubbing his neck _because_ he was spending more time around Yahaba, which meant spending more time craning up at him. Because a growth spurt had put another five inches between them, bringing the total up to six.

 

 _Great, another tall setter captain with perfect hair for me to hate,_ Kyoutani remembers thinking.

Now, as he showers for the second time since they got to camp, Kyoutani thinks about how he's never had to remind Yahaba—except for tonight.

How Yahaba never makes a big deal out of it, either, when he forgets, and how he’s never demanded that Kyoutani explain why he hates to be touched, but only sometimes.

Hell, Kyoutani doesn’t get it either.

 

“ _Kyoutani_.”

Kyoutani starts awake at the sound of the impatient voice. He tilts his chin and peeks with one eye to find Yahaba towering over him with his arms crossed. Then he spots those awful mesh shorts Yahaba likes to wear without any compression underneath.  

 _Ah, that’s right._ Training camp. Kyoutani groans and scrunches his eyes shut.

Five more minutes of that last nightmare, or practice on maybe two hours of sleep, if that, with Yahaba down his throat? Kyoutani can’t say which he’d prefer, but it doesn’t matter because Yahaba makes the choice for him.

“Don’t make me drag you out of here myself.”

Kyoutani recoils from the idea. _As if._

“Alright, I’m up.” He growls it into his pillow, more to convince himself than for Yahaba’s benefit.

“No, you’re _awake_ ,” Yahaba clarifies, as if it makes a world of difference. “But you’re not up yet.”

Kyoutani lifts his head from where he had it buried in the pillow, looking around at the empty room, then up at Yahaba’s hulking figure.

“Where’s everyone?”

“Changing out and probably warming up by now, actually.”

Kyoutani rises from the futon and shakes the heavy, cottony feeling from his head. He gets up slowly, deliberately, thinking it’s a good thing Yahaba had roused him from a distance rather than trying to nudge him awake. Still, he’s not far off from reaching to smack the bored expression from Yahaba’s face.

“Why,” Kyoutani starts, exasperation cutting him short. “Why didn’t you wake me up with everyone else.”

“Because I chose not to.”

“You want to tell me why?”

“I already said I needed everyone as well-rested as possible.” Yahaba casts a glance over his shoulder at the door. “Now, I let you sleep for as long as I could, but I should let you know Mizoguchi will be coming for both our heads soon.”

He leaves Kyoutani standing there in his confusion, but Kyoutani shakes it off and rushes through getting ready.

It’s the beginning of the second day of camp. One night down, one to go.

When Kyoutani finally joins the rest of the team, he wonders if they notice that he’s done his eyes a little darker than usual.

 

Mizoguchi’s demonic array of “warm-up” drills feels like it’s specifically designed to tear the entire team to shreds. Kyoutani knows he’s doing it to rebuild the team from scratch, centered around Yahaba’s still-growing abilities, but damn if it doesn’t _hurt_.

Breakfast hadn’t done much to stave off the headache focused right behind his eyes. Water breaks don’t really help, either.

Even as he outpaces the first and second years, Kyoutani can’t get his limbs to work like he wants them to. He reminds himself to be patient, that he’s still getting used to working nonstop. He’s never had to work so hard for something he wanted so badly, and he’s starting to remember why. _Fucking Yahaba._

Worst of all, though, is that his reaction time is off.

It’s a testimony to Kyoutani’s growth over the last few months that he’s able to refrain from snapping at anyone when he screws up. It’s not anyone else’s fault he’s running on less than empty.

_Sleep debt sure is one hell of a bitch._

Before the...thing with Yahaba that had sent Kyoutani for a run, he’d managed to doze off for a few minutes. He remembered looking at his phone's clock after that awful falling feeling had him jolting upright, heart quivering frantically in his chest like a caged animal.

Then the tossing and turning had left Kyoutani as sweaty as he had been at the end of the first day’s practice, since there isn’t a position comfortable enough when he can’t escape his own head.

_“Hey, do you know if Kyoutani’s okay?”_

_“He is a little off, isn’t he.”_

Kyoutani listens to Watari and Kindaichi talk about him from the bench, head hanging low with a towel draped over to block out most of his sight and not nearly enough of his hearing.

They wisely carry their conversation elsewhere, but Kyoutani’s peace doesn’t last. Not a moment later, someone plops down next to him and takes a loud swig of water.

Kyoutani sighs preemptively at the friction of mesh against his legs, ready to get up even before he hears that too-familiar, self-satisfied smirk in the other’s voice. He reaches up reflexively—his own hand is too warm on his neck, even through the towel.

“Mizoguchi wanted me to talk to you about how badly you’re sucking, but I’m sure you already know.”

Kyoutani’s chuckle is mirthless and hollow. “Go away, Yahaba.”

“Listen, I'm not telling you you have to tell me what's eating at you, I just need to know that you’re with us, with me.”

Kyoutani drags the towel off his head and sits up as straight as he can to level with Yahaba, as much as their new height difference will allow.

“I don’t see you harassing anyone else for their pledge of loyalty.”

Yahaba’s face darkens and he opens his mouth to respond, but Kyoutani cuts off whatever he’s about to say.

“And I don’t need a babysitter. I’m not in the mood for this.”

And with that Kyoutani gets up and jogs back onto the court to do some receiving with the others.

Unsurprisingly, Yahaba’s right on his heels. He doesn’t even ask to partner up with him, he does it by sending the ball over to Kyoutani and says, without missing a beat, “I’m your captain. And you’re my ace.”  

Kyoutani shakes his head at him to say _And?_ before bumping the ball back over the net to Yahaba.

“So winning won’t be satisfying if I don’t have you by my side.”

 _How embarrassing._ Yet Yahaba’s admission thrills Kyoutani. He focuses on lunging for the ball to hide the small smile warming on his lips. His body is lighter now, somehow.

As the ball floats over to Yahaba, Kyoutani teases, “In other words, you can’t win without me.”

Yahaba makes a rude sound, passing the ball back to him again. “Yes, I’ve already told you I need you. Does it make you happy to keep rubbing it in? To make everything so unpleasant?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Yahaba’s nostrils flare, but a silence passes over them as they bump the ball between them. It’s easy, like breathing, and neither of them let the ball touch the ground for going on fifteen minutes.

Naturally, Yahaba is the first to speak again.

“Hey, your receiving isn’t as shitty as it usually is.”

_Naturally._

Kyoutani scoffs in mock indignation. “Is that your attempt at a compliment? I’m honored.”

“Well, I thought I’d try out the whole ‘being civil’ thing,” Yahaba says, amused. “Can’t have your punk ass showing me up.”

This time, Kyoutani can’t conceal his own toothy grin. “You’re unbelievable, and I hate you,” he says, as the same time he thinks, _Your smile is so pretty when you mean it_.

Kyoutani has to focus directly on the ball, after that, as if eye contact will give away his thoughts. But if he’s honest with himself, it’s more that, if he looks at Yahaba directly, he’ll have to admit to himself that he wants to always be the reason for that pretty smile.

And then he’ll have to deal with that old, empty ache because he doesn’t know _how_. Merely pleasing Yahaba is nigh on impossible, let alone making him happy.

There’s not a drop of energy that Kyoutani can spare on distractions of that variety when there are games to be won and his jersey is at stake.

 

Kyoutani feels stupid for doing so, but doesn’t let his eyes fall on Yahaba again for the rest of the day. Not when they stop for lunch, not as they tidy the gym at the end of the day, not in the bath, not while they get ready for bed.

Not even after Yahaba had complimented him, for real this time, with something like pride echoing in his quiet voice.

“You’re improving very quickly, ace, just like I thought you would.”

Then he’d brushed his fingers across the small of Kyoutani’s back, softly enough that Kyoutani almost didn’t register his touch.

Eyes trained on the ground, Kyoutani had mumbled his thanks and smoothed a hand over his neck, not sure what to do now that he’d managed to gain Yahaba’s approval.

The words replay over and over again on a loop as Kyoutani settles in for another night of unrest, and he halfway wishes he’d had the courage to look up at Yahaba’s expression. He knows it’s immature to think the praise was forced and painful to say, that Yahaba had scowled as he said it, but he does anyway.

Deep down, Kyoutani can’t accept the words as sincere, not coming from Yahaba, even as his senses tell him that Yahaba had meant each one.

 

“Ow, _what the fuck_!”

Kyoutani is instantly alert at the pain in Yahaba’s shout, kicking his blanket off like it’s the nightmare he’s trying to blink away. He’d already been facing Yahaba, so he sits up and crawls closer to him, panic fluttering in his chest and crawling up his throat. Nobody else awakens at the outburst.

“Hey, are you okay? What happened?”

Yahaba holds a hand to half his face, over one eye. With the other, he glowers at Kyoutani. “Oh, I don’t know, you tell me. I was asleep.”

When Kyoutani looks down and finds his hand still fisted—knuckles sore as if he’d just punched a wall—he puts two and two together.

“Shit, Yahaba, I was having a nightmare, and it must have been bad otherwise I never—” He cuts off his rambling and takes a deep breath, flexing his fingers to stop himself from reaching out and causing any more damage. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?”

It was the last thing Kyoutani had expected Yahaba to whisper. “I—what? A second ago I punched you in the face and you’re asking me if _I’m_ okay?”

“You said you were having a nightmare.”

“It’s fine, I’m used to it,” Kyoutani rushes, almost cutting Yahaba off.

Yahaba raises his one visible eyebrow.

“I’ve, uh, gotta find you some ice.” Kyoutani doesn’t mean for it to sound like a question, but he’s never been in this kind of position.

“I’ll come with you,” Yahaba offers, already getting up. “I won’t be able to sleep anyway.”

 _And neither will I_ , Kyoutani thinks, guilt eating at him from the inside out.

Once they get the ice, they find a small, empty sitting room a few doors down from the common room. Yahaba gets comfortable on a stool. Kyoutani’s hands shake as he wraps a towel around some cubes and offers it to Yahaba, who covers Kyoutani’s fingers with his own around the makeshift ice pack before pulling back.

Yahaba lowers his other hand away from his face. “Can you?”

Kyoutani swallows the knives in his throat at the sight of the oncoming bruise around Yahaba’s eye. His stomach drops as he takes in the redness that spills down Yahaba’s cheek and creeps over his eyebrow, so much collateral damage.

“I’m sorry,” Kyoutani croaks, unable to raise the ice pack, unable to look Yahaba in the eye.

Yahaba clicks his tongue, curling his hand over Kyoutani’s again to bring the ice to his face. The movement pulls Kyoutani forward so that he’s standing between Yahaba’s legs. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

He doesn’t flinch away from the cold pressure, but Kyoutani winces as if the pain were his own. Yahaba holds Kyoutani’s hand and the ice in place, watching him calmly with his uncovered eye. His slouching position on the stool brings them to nearly the same height.

“So, what was the nightmare about?”

Kyoutani’s response is automatic. “I don’t remember.”

“Well I hope you kicked whoever’s ass,” Yahaba says wryly. “You’ve got a mean punch for someone who doesn’t fight.”

“Shut up. Nobody told you to have such a thick head,” Kyoutani growls, but it doesn’t pack any heat. The only warmth is in his burning cheeks, and where his legs brush the insides of Yahaba’s thighs.

Yahaba’s laugh is also surprisingly warm.

They’re still in their sleep clothes, making the moment more intimate than Kyoutani can justify. But even if Yahaba’s hand weren’t covering his own, anchoring him in place, Kyoutani doesn’t think he’d be able to back away from Yahaba, from his touch.  

It takes no time at all for the ice to melt, with all the tense heat betwixt and between them. Yahaba quietly declines for Kyoutani to get more ice and make another compress, slipping off the stool and past him. He leaves Kyoutani with nothing but a wet towel and a pounding heart—not knowing what to do with either.

 

Yahaba sports a wicked shiner for the game against the uni team, which they narrowly manage to win 2-1, taking the last set by only two hardwon points.

At the closing barbeque, the first years crowd around Yahaba, inquiring about his black eye, but as far as Kyoutani can tell, he doesn’t disclose anything. He simply shrugs and pulls his fingers across his mouth in a zipping motion.

Just as he throws the key away, Yahaba catches Kyoutani watching him and winks.

Kyoutani practically buries his nose in his plate after that.

Next to him, Watari snickers.

 

On the bus ride back, Kyoutani finds himself sitting next to Yahaba in the back row. Yahaba had pulled Watari aside before they got on, but Kyoutani figured it was something about volleyball, not _this_.

“Hey,” Yahaba murmurs, knocking their knees together.

Kyoutani sits up straighter, as if he hadn’t known there was a person sitting next to him. “Oh. Hi.”

Yahaba smooths his hands over his tracksuit pants as he talks. “So I’ve got another deal for you.”

_Fantastic._

“What,” Kyoutani deadpans.

“When we have camps like this, why don’t we sleep next to each other?”

Kyoutani pretends to consider it for a moment, then asks, “Why are you so weird?”

“I mean, like, in case you have one of those nightmares again.”

_If only you knew._

Kyoutani shakes his head. “Wouldn’t the smart thing to do be to _not_ sleep next to me?”

“If you’re going to punch someone in your sleep, I’d rather it be me.” Yahaba keeps talking before Kyoutani can tell him how stupid he’s being. “One, I know I can take it—”

“What are you, a fucking masochist? And what makes you so sure you can take all of my punches?”

“Well, if you’d let me get to my second point—even if I can’t take them, you owe me anyway.”

That renders Kyoutani speechless, as he remembers his little tiffs with Yahaba, how more often than not he deserved the bumps and bruises he walked away with.

“The thing is,” Yahaba continues, softly, “I wanted to have more training camps like this. Mizoguchi isn’t opposed to the idea, but I wanted to make sure it was okay with you first before we decide anything.”

Kyoutani stares at Yahaba, heart still aching at the swelling and discoloration marring his too-pretty face, looking for the hint of deceit he knows he won’t find. Yahaba meets his gaze, waiting patiently.

_And who knew the vain prince of Seijou would be so kind as to offer to lie with his mad dog?_

The thought of returning Yahaba’s offer with such bitterness makes Kyoutani feels ill, so he doesn’t say anything at all for a while.

Finally, he warns, “This better not be a pity thing, Yahaba.”

Yahaba’s eyes light up. “Of course not!”

_Wait, you’re happy? That’s what makes you happy?_

“Next time I’ll try not to hit you so hard,” Kyoutani grumbles, _Or next you’ll tell me you want to start eating and bathing next to each other, too,_ he doesn’t say.

 

Kyoutani thinks about that conversation a lot.

It’s how they ended up sleeping next to each other during training camps. Kyoutani keeps having nightmares, but there aren’t any more black eyes, not for either of them.

Nobody questions the comfortable truce that settles between them.

Not even Kyoutani pokes at it, at least not until it’s too late.

In hindsight, Kyoutani probably should have also warned Yahaba not to get too comfortable.

As they’re changing out after the day’s practice, Yahaba catches Kyoutani off guard for what feels like the millionth time.

“Eh? You want to _what_?” Kyoutani roars. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Calm down! I thought that since your nightmares aren’t getting any better that maybe it would help!”

“So your solution to that is to come to my house?” Kyoutani scowls up at Yahaba. “First of all, you would never fit in my room.”

“Gods, Kyoutani, I just—” Yahaba’s eyes are wild, desperate. “It’s not just because of your nightmares, my parents work all the time and it’s so lonely—”

“Oh, boohoo. I’m not the shoulder you want to lean on, in case you haven’t figured that out,” Kyoutani snaps.

“Lean on mine then, like you have been.”

Yahaba says it like it’s obvious, but Kyoutani doesn’t get any of this. “Huh?”

“Come to my house.” When Kyoutani doesn’t answer, Yahaba adds, “Please.”

It’s a good thing the rest of their teammates are already gone.

“Fine.” Kyoutani yields so quietly that he thinks Yahaba misses it, all the fight going out of him in one slow exhale.

Yahaba steps closer, tentatively, as if he’s afraid to spook Kyoutani, which is ridiculous because Kyoutani is tired of fighting this, whatever _this_ is. He still doesn’t have a name for it.

Yahaba hands Kyoutani his shirt. “Only if you’re absolutely sure, Kyoutani.”

Kyoutani takes the tee silently, meeting Yahaba’s eyes. He still hates Yahaba, still thinks his hair, his face, his everything is stupid, but he’s gotten oddly used to this warm swoop in his gut that he gets around Yahaba, totally at odds with how he wants to feel: detached, uncaring, cold.

Kyoutani’s traitor of a heart ricochets around in his chest—like a ball that he’s spiked from the top of one of Yahaba’s tosses—his pulse a staccato drumbeat in his ears, as Yahaba leads him home.  

 

They’re walking silently when Yahaba’s house comes into view, a large building with many windows that overshadows the rest of the houses in the neighborhood. The sun’s last rays glint off of the roof like a beacon.

Kyoutani has never been in a house that doesn’t belong to a family member, never mind one this huge, so he can’t help but gawk at the vaulted ceilings once he steps inside and kicks his shoes off next to Yahaba’s.

“My parents are almost never home,” Yahaba says as he peels off his jacket. “So make yourself comfy.”

The entryway opens up to an equally spacious living room, with plenty of plush-looking couch space, a glass coffee table, and the biggest flat screen TV Kyoutani’s ever seen. He almost feels bad as he curls his toes in the shag rug, closing his eyes as he imagines that he’s standing on a cloud.

“All this space to yourself, huh?” Kyoutani says.

Glass clinks behind him and turns to find Yahaba in a chrome-gilt kitchen, pouring something dark into two tumblers.

“Don’t worry, it’s only juice.”

“Shit. I totally pegged you for an alcoholic.” Kyoutani puts the sarcasm on thick, his stomach flipping when Yahaba rewards him with a smile.

Yahaba motions for him to follow, so Kyoutani reluctantly leaves his spot on the rug and lets Yahaba lead him up the stairs and down a hall.

Kyoutani gets it, how living here could be so isolating without anyone to share it with. His own average-sized but still comfortable home is lonely a lot of the time without his dad home and his brother long since moved out.

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken his thoughts out loud until Yahaba stops abruptly in front of one of the doors.

“I hate it,” Yahaba says, a near-whisper.

Then he kicks the door open, flicks on the light with his elbow, and walks to one side of the enormous bed inside, which takes up most of the floor space. He sets the glasses down on the nightstand, then turns to face Kyoutani.

“You sure about this?” Yahaba stares down at bed as he asks.

“I—yeah.”

“Good. Bathroom’s the second door on the left.”

Then it dawns on Kyoutani that since they came straight here after school, he doesn’t have anything to sleep in. He opens his mouth to say something, but Yahaba beats him to it.

“I’ll bring you stuff to change into.” Yahaba’s still staring at his bed like he’s not sure how it got there.

Kyoutani drops his bag and goes back out the door without saying anything, finding the bathroom just a big as everything in the house, Yahaba included. The thought of wearing something of his makes Kyoutani furious, and he scrubs at his skin with a little more force than necessary.

He finds a shirt and pair of shorts hanging on the bathroom door handle. The shirt hangs off of Kyoutani’s frame as much as he expected it to, but the shorts mostly fit so he sighs and accepts it, padding back to Yahaba’s bedroom to find the sheets already turned down, no sign of Yahaba.

Gingerly sitting at the foot of the bed, Kyoutani takes in the rest of the room.

It’s minimalistic, with just the bed, the nightstand, a desk, and a bookcase. A few pieces of clothing are strewn on the floor and the closet door hangs open. The rolling chair in front of the desk is covered in more clothes, and Kyoutani picks out a few splashes of Seijou blue.

Yahaba’s laptop sits closed on top of the desk, surrounded by a mess of papers and notebooks. He’s got family photos and anime posters tacked onto the walls, not a single one crooked. Next to the desk is the bookcase filled with more figurines than books, but the titles Kyoutani can make out from across the room are ones he doesn’t recognize.

The sound of a door closing has Kyoutani nearly jumping out of his skin, like he’s been caught snooping. Then comes the gentle sound of running water.

 _Must be Yahaba bathing_. The thought sets Kyoutani’s blood alight with anticipation. They’ve spent plenty of nights together, and even seen each other naked, but never with just the two of them, never in the sacred, private space of a home.

Kyoutani lies back and stares up at the ceiling, focusing on the sound of the water. It lulls him to that borderline state between wakefulness and sleep, but a soft knock brings him out of the trance and he pushes himself up onto his elbows.

Yahaba stands in the doorway, hair dripping onto the towel around his neck. “Hey.”

“Yo,” Kyoutani replies.

“I was thinking...Would it help to talk about the stuff you dream about?”

“It’s not dreaming,” Kyoutani starts to argue. “But no, I don’t think so.”

Yahaba steps into the room proper, dragging the towel up over his head before tossing it on the floor and crawling onto the bed.

Kyoutani scoots back to make space for him before he remembers how massive the bed is. He brings his knees up to his chest, propping his chin on top.

“How come you’ve never talked to anyone about them? The nightmares, I mean.” Yahaba’s correct to guess that Kyoutani’s kept quiet about it.

“Dunno, guess it’s pointless.” Kyoutani rolls his tongue around in his mouth, unsure if he should continue. “Words aren’t really enough to describe them, if I can remember anything in the first place.”

Yahaba tilts his head, signaling for Kyoutani to continue, their drinks forgotten. 

“I did use to try to tell my brother about them, and it helped a little, made me think of them as more silly once I described them out loud.”

“Makes sense.”

“But that didn't last very long. My brother got too old to listen before I was old enough to start keeping them to himself, but I learned to cope on my own way before he moved out.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘coping,’ Kyoutani.”

“Dealing with it, then,” Kyoutani amends. “The worse they are, the more I remember, but even then I end up forgetting. I’m tired, but I’m used to it.”

“There’s something I wanted to try,” Yahaba says.

He shifts closer, the bed creaking under his weight, and Kyoutani tightens his arms around his legs, watching Yahaba warily.

“Is this okay?” Yahaba asks, touching Kyoutani’s arm.

Kyoutani doesn’t bristle under his touch. He waits for his body to jolt away, but nothing happens. “Yeah.”

With Kyoutani’s permission, Yahaba tugs at his arms, repositioning him so that they’re laying face to face with the sheets pulled over them. Kyoutani wants to want to fight it, but he can’t find it in himself to resist, not when Yahaba feels so good, so warm against him, molding to his sharp edges with a softness that takes Kyoutani’s breath away.

Still, he has to ask. “What would you have done if I’d said yes but my dad didn’t work all the time?”

Yahaba’s eyes widen. “Crawled through your window?”

Kyoutani pushes at Yahaba’s cheek to break their eye contact. “You’re so...unbelievable,” he mutters.

He feels Yahaba’s smile underneath his hand, and it sends a wave of fondness over him.

“Uh, about my touch thing—” Uncertainty cuts Kyoutani’s sentence short. His fickle relationship with touch is too complicated for words, but Yahaba understands.

“Just tell me when you need space and I’ll give you as much as you need, but I have you mostly figured out.”

Kyoutani can’t wait to hear this. “Oh?”

“When you say you hate me, that’s when you want me to touch you the most.”

It’s a ludicrous thing to suggest, but Kyoutani doesn’t tell Yahaba that he’s wrong.

 

Every time Kyoutani resurfaces from a nightmare, it startles him that he’s not alone. Yahaba’s heartbeat is right beneath his ear, his shirt twisted in Kyoutani’s grip.

Kyoutani nuzzles closer to Yahaba, and Yahaba pulls him flush against his body, tucking Kyoutani’s head underneath his chin.

Forehead pressed against Yahaba’s chest, Kyoutani wants to hate Yahaba and that they fit together like this only because Yahaba is a tall bastard, and he says as much, but he doesn’t mean it. He can’t, not when Yahaba presses a kiss to his sweaty forehead every time he stirs, something like a promise.

Waking up to the new sensation of being anchored frightens Kyoutani almost as much as the nightmares themselves.

But more than that, Kyoutani has never felt more oddly grateful for black eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> yes, yahaba is taller (in this fic) than oikawa was in his third year.
> 
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